


I Get Along Without You Very Well (Except Sometimes)

by flowerfan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Good Omens Big Bang 2019, Love, M/M, New York City, Pining, Podfic Available, Reuniting, Separation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22658005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerfan/pseuds/flowerfan
Summary: It’s the summer of Warlock’s 10th birthday, and the Dowlings have rented a brownstone in NYC, taking their tutors Mr. Cortese (Aziraphale) and Mr. Harrison (Crowley) with them.  When the Dowlings leave for a Florida vacation, Aziraphale and Crowley have the place to themselves.  They take the opportunity to have some fun, but before things can really get going, Heaven interferes, putting their arrangement at risk.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 96
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	I Get Along Without You Very Well (Except Sometimes)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to the wonderful artists who came on this journey with me. I was thrilled when watery_weasel told me that she wanted to do a podfic – I’ve always loved listening to podfics, and it’s amazing to have one made for this story _(click[here](https://wateryweasel.parakaproductions.com/audiofic/getalongwithoutyouverywell.mp3) for mobile streaming)_. Then I was lucky enough to have amadness2method (CynSyn) come up with the perfect art to complement the scenes in the story, including some of my favorite moments (her art is here at the outset, and then a second amazing piece appears later in the story).
> 
> A million thanks as well to my beta, perry_avenue, for her unwavering support and good cheer. This wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without her.
> 
> Finally, the mods of this big bang are without a doubt some of the most kind, generous and supportive people I’ve ever encountered. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your help.

“Crowley, Crowley, wake up!”

Crowley grumbles and rolls over, cursing the inadequate curtains in the Dowling’s rented brownstone that let in far too much cheerful sunlight. He squints one eye open and realizes that Aziraphale is standing right next to his bed, having apparently barged into his room without even bothering to knock. Probably he can blame Aziraphale for the bright light. 

“What timessit? What’re you doing in here?” Crowley mumbles, pressing his face into his pillow. At least the Dowlings have proper respect for high thread count sheets. 

“It’s after nine o’clock in the morning. Warlock didn’t show up for his lesson, and when I went looking for him, I found this!” Aziraphale thrusts a piece of paper at Crowley’s head. 

Crowley pulls the duvet up and burrows underneath. “Go ‘way, I’m asleep.”

There’s a quiet whoosh as Aziraphale miracles his blankets away, leaving Crowley shivering in his t-shirt and boxer briefs.

“You right bastard,” Crowley says, sitting up and pulling his bony knees to his chest.

“Nice shirt,” Aziraphale says smugly, unfairly amused by Crowley’s discomfort.

“Warlock gave it to me. It’s soft.” It also says _I love NY,_ with a heart instead of the word love, an emoji before its time. The slogan is one of Crowley’s signature bits from the 1970s, encouraging tourists near and far to believe themselves enamored of New York City’s then crime-infested neighborhoods. Effective ear-worm as well.

“Be that as it may, we have a problem,” Aziraphale says, fluttering the piece of paper in Crowley’s direction.

Crowley takes it and tries to get his eyes to focus. He’s really still mostly asleep. “Dear Mr. Harrison and Mr. Cortese… away for a week… please be sure to threaten my begonias on a regular schedule…”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, grabbing the note back. “That is _not_ what it says. And you really shouldn’t mess with that little garden, the landscaper gets quite confused.”

Crowley eels out of bed and around Aziraphale, tugging on jeans and a more appropriate shirt, stretching his arms and showing off his chest a little as he goes. He loves to make Aziraphale blush. He knows Aziraphale likes to look at him, even if he won’t admit it even to himself.

“Angel, if you had been paying any attention at all, you would have known that they’re going on holiday.”

“But we’re already _on_ holiday,” Aziraphale says, charmingly perplexed. The Dowlings and their household staff – including the two of them, Warlock’s fairly useless tutors - were spending the summer in New York City, renting a lovely brownstone in the East Village.

“Being dragged around the city to every museum known to man is hardly the same as a trip to Florida. Give the kid a break.”

“But we’re getting so close to the end, Crowley. It’s not a good time for a break. I had several important lessons planned about Florence Nightingale and her brave and generous spirit. We were even going to visit a nursing school.”

“I’m sure Warlock would have loved that. It’s every nine-year old boy’s dream, learning how to change bedpans.” 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale huffs. He folds the note and slides it into his vest pocket.

“Aren’t you a little overdressed for a summer day? It’s supposed to be in the nineties,” Crowley says checking his phone with a touch of glee. Nothing annoys New Yorkers more than blisteringly hot days, especially if the subway breaks down.

“I like these clothes,” Aziraphale replies primly, smoothing his hands down over his traditional cream colored coat.

“Wouldn’t hurt you to change it up once in a while,” Crowley teases, pressing past Aziraphale and leading the way downstairs.

Aziraphale continues to grumble about the Dowlings’ unexpected trip as they make themselves tea and toast. 

“I don’t know what’s got your panties in a twist,” Crowley says finally, clinking his spoon loudly against the inside of his teacup just to make Aziraphale cringe. “Think of it this way – we’ve got a whole week with nothing to do but amuse ourselves.” The phrase comes out a little dirtier than he quite meant.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, putting his cup down in its saucer and looking at Crowley. “Well. I’m not sure that’s a good idea. My side wouldn’t like it.”

Crowley sighs. “You amuse yourself all the time, angel – has ‘up there’ ever called you out for all the sushi? Or the cronuts? That counter girl at Dominque’s is paying her rent off all the tips you leave her.”

“She always sets aside the nicest pastries for me, even on busy days,” Aziraphale says. “And how exactly is a young person supposed to live in a city like this on minimum wage, hmm? She deserves every penny I give her.”

Crowley’s been known to change the actual pennies Aziraphale does leave into twenties, but Aziraphale doesn’t need to know that.

After breakfast Crowley chats with the housekeeper. His Portuguese is a little rusty, and so is hers, but Aziraphale has no patience for languages at all, which makes it all the more fun for Crowley, and Serafina enjoys the ruse. He learns that she’s been given the week off as well, and aside from finishing up some laundry today, she plans to spend it with her sister in Queens.

He and Aziraphale really will have the place to themselves, Crowley muses. What kind of mischief shall they get up to?

“Oh Crowley, you’re such a child,” Azirphale says later, when Crowley makes this point over Chinese take-away. Despite having the day to himself, he accomplished nothing except trailing Aziraphale around the house, waiting until the angel got just absorbed enough in his book to forget that Crowley was there, and then dragging him into conversation. “You get into mischief all the time. Why should the Dowlings being away make any difference?”

Crowley grinned. “Because this time, we can do it together.”

It isn’t until hours later that Aziraphale finally seems to come around to the idea. They had walked down to their favorite ice cream shop, enjoying the summer evening, and now sat on the stoop of the brownstone finishing their treats.

“You know, this place feels different tonight.”

Crowley peers at Aziraphale through his sunglasses. “How so?”

Aziraphale pops the last tiny bit of ice cream cone in his mouth and wipes his lips with a napkin. “Well, you know that my side keeps a close eye on the boy.”

Crowley isn’t sure he’s seen any evidence of this, but Aziraphale has mentioned it from time to time. “Sure, if you say so.”

“I can feel it, you know. When they do. Just a shiver, really, a flutter.”

“Big brother, you mean. Watching us all the time?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Nothing that… aware. If it were, I hardly think we’d have gotten away with our Arrangement all these years.”

“Hardly,” Crowley agrees. “All right, so they’re sort of vaguely paying attention, when it suits them. What’s your point, angel?”

Aziraphale turns to him, his mouth quirking up and a twinkle in his eye. “It’s stopped.”

They talk it over for a while, Aziraphale wandering through the house and taking a few minutes to pause in Warlock’s room (which Serafina had straightened up before taking off, a fortunate thing, as the boy is a terrible slob – points for Crowley). “They’ve turned their focus elsewhere. Sandalphon’s probably watching him on holiday down in Mouseworld,” Aziraphale concludes. 

“Disney World,” Crowley corrects idly. He wishes he could take credit for it, as it combines two of his favorite things – pointless consumerism and endless queues – but it was all Walt’s doing.

“Regardless, they’re no longer keeping an eye on us.” Aziraphale gives him a giddy smile, like a teenager who has just been given the keys to his parents’ car. “Crowley, do you know what this means?”

“What does it mean, angel?”

“For the next week, we’re free.”

********

The next morning Aziraphale is out when Crowley comes downstairs. The house is strangely quiet, lacking not only the Dowlings’ usual comings and goings, underscored by various whines and entreaties from Warlock, but also Aziraphale’s constant commentary. 

Crowley has grown quite used to having Aziraphale nearby. For all that they spent nearly six thousand years as adversaries, the partnership they entered into when the Antichrist came into their lives has been another thing altogether. 

In their nanny and gardener days, they made sure to plan plenty of meetings outside the Dowlings’ home, ostensibly to compare notes and make sure they were exerting appropriately balanced and opposite influences on the young child. Warlock was a handful, even then, but having an excuse to spend time with Aziraphale – one that Crowley didn’t have to fabricate – was damn convenient.

When Warlock grew too old for a nanny, they had presented themselves as highly qualified tutors (Nanny Ashtoreth herself had written them a glowing recommendation). It was almost too easy, requiring none of the detailed costuming of their previous roles, and providing them both with ample reason to lecture Warlock on the importance of evil, or goodness, as the case may be.

Crowley even talked Aziraphale into putting on skits to illustrate critical moments in history, which entertained them both. They never turned out quite as planned, however, Warlock tending to get bored while the two of them argued over their characters’ motivations (for example, Aziraphale insisted on playing Attila the Hun as a misunderstood leader, who was fiercely loyal and cared deeply for his mother, while Crowley preferred to focus on his impressive acts of violence and political calculation).

Now with Warlock almost ten years old, and just over a year to go before Armageddon, Crowley understands Aziraphale’s concern about time running out. Warlock likes baseball, and chewing gum, and those infernal Captain America movies. He is not particularly interested in philosophy or religion, indeed, he prefers maths to any other subject. Crowley and Aziraphale have come to terms with what has been growing increasingly obvious – Warlock seems disturbingly _normal._

With no Warlock in residence to be concerned over, however, and no Aziraphale to pester, Crowley spreads himself out on the comfortable couch in the Dowlings’ rented living room and lets his thoughts wander. He finally gets bored and pokes through the kitchen cabinets, and is considering going to the market to find a treat for their afternoon tea when Aziraphale bursts into the house.

“I got them!” Aziraphale proclaims, beaming endearingly at Crowley. “I had to wait in line in Central Park for hours, but I got them.” Aziraphale plops himself down in a kitchen chair and gazes up at Crowley in anticipation. “Aren’t you pleased?”

“I’m reserving judgment until you actually tell me what you got.”

“Oh – tickets for us to see Shakespeare in the Park tonight. You have to queue for hours, it’s part of the experience, you know – and I could never do it before, always had to spend mornings in lessons with Warlock. But today was different. Oh, Crowley, I’m so excited, aren’t you?”

Crowley tilts his head. “I would have thought you wouldn’t want to sit outside with all the bugs.”

Aziraphale ignores him. “The timing is perfect. A few weeks ago when I checked they were doing Julius Caesar, and I know how you feel about the dreary ones. But,” Aziraphale fairly wiggles in his chair. “Now they’re doing Midsummer Night’s Dream. So – you’ll come with me, won’t you?”

Crowley is seized with the absurd urge to kiss the breath out of Aziraphale, and he coughs, standing up and turning aside to give himself a moment to recover. His hands land on empty teacups resting by the sink, and he puts them on the table in front of Aziraphale, who is polite enough not to question it.

“Should probably bring bug spray.”

Aziraphale continues to beam sunnily at him. “Oh, good thought, yes.”

That night, as they shuffle to a pair of seats down front that has conveniently become theirs, Crowley stays close to Aziraphale, one hand on his back. 

“I’m so glad I was able to get tickets,” Aziraphale says for the tenth time, reciting once again how difficult it is to get them, how one has to wait in line for hours.

“Why didn’t you just miracle us a pair?” Crowley asks.

“As I said, waiting in the queue is part of the experience. And,” Aziraphale’s pleased expression slides into a frown, and he bites his lip. “I rather think that too many miracles this week might draw unwanted attention,” he says quietly, as if Gabriel was in the row behind them and might overhear. “I don’t want to squander our opportunity for unsupervised activities.”

Crowley could swear Aziraphale smirks at this last phrase, but figures he must be misreading him. When they finally sit down, Aziraphale commandeers the program, reading the bios of each actor out loud.

“I’m so looking forward to seeing Annaleigh Ashford again,” Aziraphale gushes. “I do adore her. She’ll be wonderful as Helena.”

Crowley nods along, but he’s distracted by the couple sitting on the other side of Aziraphale. They’re pressed against each other, hands entwined, the man’s head resting on the woman’s shoulder, eyes closed in what one might call bliss, if one were fond of purple prose.

As the story of unrequited but devoted love plays out on stage, Crowley feels himself becoming strangely aware of how he is sitting. His arms seem wrong, his elbows not able to find a spot to rest. Not fooling anyone, let alone himself, he finally slides a little closer to Aziraphale, and stretches his arm up and over him, resting it on the top of the seats, just touching Aziraphale’s back.

He keeps looking at the stage, and Aziraphale does too, but out of the corner of his eye he sees a shy hint of a smile on the angel’s face.

At intermission, Crowley gets them each a glass of wine. It’s vile, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind; he’s too full of excitement to notice. Regardless Crowley prods it into something less awful before Aziraphale takes a second sip.

“You don’t think it’s a tad pathetic?” Crowley finally interrupts, as Aziraphale starts to compare this production with one he had seen dozens of years ago at the Globe. “The way Helena chases after Demetrios?”

Aziraphale turns to him, face illuminated by the theater lights even as the night grows dark. “Oh no, my dear, not at all. Helena loves with all her heart.”

“But he doesn’t love her back.” 

“He does, in the end, with a little help from Puck. And along the way, Helena fights for what she loves, even when doing so goes against what society expects her to do. She doesn’t give up. I think it’s rather beautiful.” Aziraphale holds his gaze as he speaks, and Crowley suppresses a shiver, thinking not for the first time that Aziraphale sees right through his dark glasses and into his tainted infernal soul. 

Crowley doesn’t dare to believe that Aziraphale knows what he feels about him, what Crowley isn’t supposed to be able to feel. Crowley’s known it for ages, can’t remember when he started having to push it aside, telling himself over and over that he must be mistaken, that demons can’t love. But it persisted, with each time that the world disappointed the angel, and each time that Crowley ached to fix it for him. He doesn’t know what to do with it anymore. It keeps growing and expanding, and Crowley isn’t sure how much longer he’ll be able to keep it hidden.

The show is starting back up again, and Aziraphale turns towards the stage with a small smile. This time it’s Aziraphale who leans against Crowley, pressing their sides together, a welcome warmth in the cool evening. Crowley eases out a long, careful breath, puts his arm around Aziraphale’s back, and this time lets it rest on the angel’s shoulders.

Luckily Crowley already knows how the play ends, because he doesn’t hear another word.

*****

The rare book store on Madison Avenue is as different from Aziraphale’s Soho shop as the Ritz is from a neighborhood pub. Crowley doesn’t care for it. It doesn’t feel right. The books are unhappy, trapped behind glass in dark wood prison cabinets.

The pretentious atmosphere doesn’t seem to bother Aziraphale, who breezes in with anticipation, cheerfully prattling away to the rare book specialist who meets him at the door for his appointment. Now Aziraphale is up on the third floor, no doubt communing with the elderly manuscripts, while Crowley is not so patiently waiting for him. 

The man at the front desk is alternating between typing away at his computer and keeping a rather rude eye on him, and Crowley decides that if Aziraphale is having fun, there’s no reason he shouldn’t, too.

Crowley plants himself at the fine mahogany table in the middle of the store, sprawls lazily against it, and watches as the man curses at his suddenly unresponsive computer. “You could try unplugging it and plugging it back in,” Crowley volunteers. “That always works for me.”

Aziraphale finally comes down the broad staircase, books clutched to his chest, beaming widely. “Thank you so much for setting this up, Crowley. They have quite a wonderful collection.”

“Glad you liked it.” 

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s arm as they head outside, and the snake somewhere inside Crowley’s cold heart does a little dance.

“Do you, um, do you want to go to another one?”

“Another bookstore?” Aziraphale asks, still excited, as if visiting two bookstores in one day is a particularly special treat.

“Yesss,” Crowley drawls. “This one has left a bad taste in my mouth.”

He’s always had a fond spot for the Strand, and of course Aziraphale has too. It’s been open since the 1920s, and what started off as a small used book store now boasts of having eighteen miles of books. Inside, books are stacked everywhere, with shelves filled to bursting. The books here are loved, and the customers are, too.

Aziraphale is immediately lost among the stacks, and Crowley entertains himself by watching people browse the dollar carts outside. If you give them even a little encouragement, they suddenly become enamored of the most tedious titles. But the boring books deserve good homes, too. 

Crowley eventually wanders upstairs to find Aziraphale, who is delightedly reading from an inscribed copy of Brillat-Savarin and M.F.K. Fisher’s _The Physiology of Taste._ Crowley’s perturbed for a moment, wishing he had discovered the volume himself – the treatise on the pleasures of the table would have been an excellent surprise for Aziraphale. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, looking up with a slightly dazed smile. “Are you having a good time?” 

Crowley takes in the comfortable surroundings, the smell of old paper, and the happiness on his angel’s face. “’Course I am.”

When Aziraphale turns to talk to the assistant in charge of collections, Crowley nabs the book and takes it over to the register. He presents it to Aziraphale in a bag as they head out.

Aziraphale’s smile could power London for a week. “Thank you, my dear. This is quite generous.” Crowley just shrugs in response, but he lets Aziraphale take his arm again (“lets” isn’t quite the right word – he rejoices and squeals internally, while keeping a cool and collected look upon his face) as they head off to dinner.

Over small plates at a trendy East Village wine bar, Aziraphale touches his glass of cab sauv to Crowley’s and leans back in his chair. “I do think you’ve not quite gotten in the spirit of the week,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley quickly reviews the last few days in his mind, and comes up blank. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We haven’t done anything that you want to do.”

Crowley stretches back, cocking an elbow over the arm of the chair, and re-crossing his legs. Stalling for time. “I picked everything we did today.” He holds up a hand and counts off on his fingers for emphasis. “Posh bookstore, decent bookstore, dinner.”

“But you picked those for me.”

“I like bookstores,” Crowley protests.

“You like _my_ bookstore,” Aziraphale says. “Because I’m in it.” He’s got a wicked gleam in his eye, and Crowley adores him.

“Point.” Crowley waves at a passing server. “Can we get some champagne?” he asks when he has the server’s attention. “Best you’ve got.”

“What’s that for?” Aziraphale asks, wiggling a bit in his seat. “Not that I’m complaining.” Aziraphale loves champagne.

Crowley does too. And if he gets to pick their next activity, well, for right now, he’ll pick getting pleasantly tipsy with his angel.

Later that night, having accomplished “pleasantly tipsy” with flying colors, Crowley and Aziraphale make their way home. Crowley collapses on the couch, and Aziraphale putters about in the kitchen, coming back out in a few minutes with a tray of little nibbles and yet more wine.

“Try this,” he says, stretching out his fingers to Crowley’s mouth. Crowley obediently opens up, and chews thoughtfully on the tidbit.

“Cashew?” Crowley asks. “But… um… peppery.”

“There’s a whole box of them,” Aziraphale says. “All kinds of spiced nuts, in little bags with different colored ribbons. Came in a gift basket for the Dowlings yesterday.”

Crowley snorts. “So you opened them?”

“It was addressed to the household. And I wouldn’t want them to go bad,” Aziraphale replies blandly. “Plus, the chocolates were a little melted.”

“Don’t see any chocolates.”

Aziraphale leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, his wine-sweet breath tickling Crowley’s nose. “I ate them already.”

“Angel, I’m so impressed. Good on you, taking care of the evidence.”

“Why, thank you, dear.”

Crowley opens the wine – a respectable pinot – and pours them each a glass. They drink and chat until the bottle is almost gone, Aziraphale popping an almond or another cashew in Crowley’s mouth from time to time and making him guess the flavors. At some point Aziraphale moves next to Crowley on the couch, presumably so he doesn’t have to stretch so far to keep playing his game.

Crowley is well aware that this has swerved into somewhat new territory – that while Aziraphale has certainly encouraged him to try numerous foods over the hundreds of meals they’ve shared, he’s never hand fed him. And he’s never done it while pressed against his side, squirming and laughing and leaning far, far into his personal space.

But eventually Aziraphale goes still, his laughter quieting, and Crowley takes that as his sign that it’s time to leave. He tries not to think about how many times he’s experienced this moment, at the end of each of their encounters, not wanting Aziraphale to always have to bear the burden of their parting. 

Crowley thinks Aziraphale knows full well just how besotted Crowley is, how without any ground rules, spoken or not, Crowley would never leave his side. But Aziraphale hasn’t signed up for that (“you go too fast for me, Crowley”) and Crowley would never risk what they have by overstepping.

So it’s with a twinge in his heart that Crowley shifts, stretching out his back and shoulders, preparing to slink upstairs for the remainder of the night.

“Guess I’d better head up,” Crowley says, legs still brushing against Azirphale’s knees as he rises. “It’s been a nice night, angel.”

Aziraphale gazes up at him and smiles gently. “I wanted to give you something, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, soft but clear, and then looks down, a blush tinting his cheeks. “Sweet dreams.”

Crowley’s mind spins as he stumbles upstairs. What did Aziraphale mean by that? Was he making romantic overtures? _Advances?_

He’s had too much wine to engage in any rational thought, and although he could easily sober himself up, he chooses not to. Instead, Crowley falls asleep thinking about what Aziraphale’s gift might possibly mean ( _love,_ he wants to conclude. It means love.)

*****  
The city’s flower market is much smaller than it used to be, just a handful of shops along a block in Chelsea. The high rents have pushed out all but a few family owned stores. Crowley still finds it fascinating, especially the bustle and thrum when it opens near dawn, as overflowing baskets of sweet smelling blossoms and greenery are delivered to the crowded sidewalks. So many varieties of flowers have been uprooted from their homes and gathered here, fated to move on to grace hotels and restaurants and weddings of the rich and famous.

One of his favorite stores has wall to ceiling white tiles and wall-mounted ferns. It’s been here for decades, thick leaves muffling the sound of the city outside. Florists pore over selections on tables stocked high with tropical foliage, while designers push by with their tall wrapped packages of lilies and roses. Crowley just lurks in the back and breathes it in.

When he’s drunk his fill, Crowley heads back out to the street. He pauses by a bucket of purple wild pansies – heartsease - and wonders if some stagehand comes to the flower market each morning to buy these unusual blooms that Shakespeare gave such meaning. If the delicate flowers wait backstage at the Delacourt like chorus members eager for their moment under the lights. 

Crowley briefly imagines buying his own bouquet and touching the petals to Aziraphale’s sleeping face, dosing him with love potion like a demonic Shakespearian fairy. It’s not how he’d have it go, though, no matter the consequence. It’s not his style. He could never magic Aziraphale into loving him. Indeed, though Crowley may have fed old William some ideas here and there, inadvertently or not, Crowley isn’t responsible for the love potion trope. Cupid thought up this particular evil himself.

Crowley shakes his head and walks down the block, away from the flowers and their insidious meanings (if he were buying purple flowers for Aziraphale he’d make it a proper bouquet, with gladiola (confessions of love), violets (devotion) and lavender (peace)). He takes deep breaths and tries to clear his head. It’s a beautiful morning, crisp and clear. Not the usual hot and muggy summer day in the city. He should really make the most of it.

Crowley strides off confidently down the street, trying to focus on the promise of the day, and not things he can’t have. He lets himself wander perhaps a bit too much, and winds up outside of a store he had sworn he wasn’t going to patronize. 

It’s a posh menswear shop, full of the kind of clothes Aziraphale drools over, and worse than that, it’s got a display of antique pocket watches in the window. A cornucopia of delights to tickle his angel’s fancy. Except, of course, it isn’t Aziraphale that’s standing here, it’s Crowley.

He curses his stupid, longing, hopeless heart, and goes inside.

The shop is dark and smells of expensive fabrics, catering more to the gentleman than the hipster. There’s a spread of neckwear right inside the door, and Crowley knows instantly that he’s doomed. One ascot holds all the colors of Aziraphale’s eyes, a mesmerizing swirl of blues, with gold and cream accents thrown in as the icing on the cream puff. Crowley can still see Aziraphale wearing an ascot like this decades ago, before he became so attached to bow ties.

Crowley picks up the cursed item and strokes it, his finger catching on the fine silk. He closes his eyes, lost for a moment in the thought of Aziraphale adorning himself with something Crowley has given him. They haven’t been much for material gift giving, not ever, really, if you don’t count food and drink, or an occasional ticket to the symphony. He’s certainly never given Aziraphale anything he could wear. 

(He’s not engaging in a tit for tat, for whatever Aziraphale thought he was giving Crowley last night. It’s just an impulse, a desire that Crowley never really shakes with any effectiveness, to want to make his angel smile.)

But he still can’t help but wonder if it is too forward, to assume that a gift like this is anywhere near appropriate? Would he be crossing a line? Or is that exactly what this week of freedom is about?

Crowley is so absorbed in his indecision that he doesn’t see the sales assistant approach. 

“May I help you? I see you are an admirer of the finer things. I can show you some of our other goods, if you like.” The young man is talking about clothes, but Crowley gets the feeling that he’d show Crowley pretty much anything if he asked. He’s not asking.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Crowley turns away, but the sales assistant continues. Wants his commission, if nothing else. 

“We have some lovely items over here I can show you. A similar feel to them, but lighter weight.”

Despite himself. Crowley gets drawn into conversation. He knows quite a bit more about silk than the salesboy, of course. It was Crowley who made that cocoon fall into the Chinese emperor’s wife’s tea, causing quite a stir in the imperial gardens. How was he to know she’d watch it unravel and spin the threads into silk?

In any case, there’s no harm in letting this eager young man explain the varying methods used to create the goods he’s selling. He can fool himself that he’s just looking out for Aziraphale’s best interests; given how long Aziraphale holds on to items of clothes, he certainly should invest in high quality garments. 

The sales assistant sets things aside for Crowley as they move through the store, Crowley somehow lost to the buttery feel of thin leather gloves, the warmth of cashmere. It’s all just biding time, however, putting off the inevitable, before he finally clears his throat.

“Can you, um, show me the watches in the window?”

The sales assistant’s eyes light up, and Crowley groans internally. They must be even more expensive than they look. 

In the end, Crowley leaves the store laden with packages - black silk boxers and dark gray cashmere socks for himself, totally unnecessary leather gloves for them both (one pair black, one ecru), the rain-blue paisley ascot, and, predictably, a vintage pocket watch.

Back at the house, Crowley sneaks up the stairs and stashes his packages in his closet, all except the watch, which he stuffs in the front pocket of his jeans. Aziraphale is out on the little patio in the backyard; Crowley can look down on him from his window, see the fluffy white curls on the top of his head.

He slinks into Aziraphale’s bedroom, and pulls the watch out of his pocket. He had thought to leave it somewhere on Aziraphale’s dresser, a subtle gift, not something to fuss about, but Aziraphale’s room is so filled with odds and ends that he’s afraid the angel might not notice it. 

Even though they have only been here a few weeks, Aziraphale’s room has taken on a comfortable, lived-in look. There are piles of books on every flat surface, lamps that surely were not here when they moved in, and far too many tartan pillows. One of the armchairs in the corner has a soft-looking throw draped invitingly over it, and Crowley is stroking it with a finger, comparing it to the cashmere in the socks he’s recently heard so much about, when he starts with surprise. 

“Oh, hello there. Did you have a nice morning?” 

Crowley turns, hastily shoving the watch underneath him as he plants himself in an armchair, crossing one leg loftily over the other. “Um, yes, went for a walk, saw some flowers.”

Aziraphale smiles fondly at him, and Crowley feels his heart leap. He’s so easy, in the face of Aziraphale’s affection. So very far gone.

“I heard you come in. I was just about to come upstairs and read for a while.” Aziraphale nods towards a pile of books on the table in between the two chairs. “You’re welcome to stay and keep me company.”

It’s a nice invitation, not altogether unusual, given how often Crowley has lounged about Aziraphale’s bookstore. But it’s somehow more intimate, here in Aziraphale’s bedroom.

Crowley holds his breath as Aziraphale settles into the chair next to him and takes a book off the top of the pile. “Plenty here for you to choose from,” Aziraphale says, voice going quieter as he opens his book and his attention is drawn into it. “Some science-y ones at the bottom.”

Crowley looks, and indeed there are several “science-y” books at the bottom of the pile, if by “science-y” Aziraphale means non-fiction. He picks up one about the building of the Brooklyn Bridge, and another about trees at the New York Botanical Garden. He’s certain Aziraphale didn’t buy them for himself.

He’s also damned sure that the bedroom didn’t have a fireplace in it a moment ago, and that it shouldn’t be so pleasant to feel the warmth of the flames on a summer’s day like today, but Crowley isn’t going to object. Instead he pulls the cozy throw over his lap, stretches out his legs, and delights in it.

(Later, when it’s too late, Crowley realizes that he left the pocket watch there, wedged under his thigh, and that it slid down into the cushions of the chair, forgotten.)

********

The next day Aziraphale explains that he has lessons to plan, and suggests that perhaps Crowley should do the same.

Crowley isn’t thrilled at being told to go do his homework, like a recalcitrant teenager, and much like a teenager, reacts by playing Warlock’s video games all morning. Eventually he spends a little time in the garden, and then logs on to his computer and checks in on his various social media sites, looking for something to amuse himself.

It’s late in the day when he finds it, and he heads out of the house with a quick “see you later” to Aziraphale.

Of course, he’s so pleased with his efforts in causing torrential rain to pour on some racist assholes protesting outside city hall that he neglects to keep himself dry, and by the time he returns to the brownstone he’s cold through and shivering.

“Blast,” he mutters, and miracles his sopping clothes away as soon as he steps inside, leaving himself in just the new black silk boxer shorts he purchased the day before. He’s considering starting a fire in the fireplace (at least there’s actually a fireplace in the living room already, as opposed to Aziraphale’s rendering of one out of whole cloth the night before) when Aziraphale comes into the room.

(There’s really no ethereal equivalent to “speak of the devil” – Crowley has been trying to think of one for years.)

“Shouldn’t you take the glasses off, too?” Aziraphale asks mildly. “Complete the look?”

Crowley doesn’t miss the way Aziraphale’s eyes flick up and down his body. Aziraphale is trying to play it cool, but there’s no hiding that he is - naturally – surprised to find that Crowley isn’t wearing anything except for his sunglasses and black silk shorts.

“I’ll take them off if you like, angel,” Crowley drawls, pulling off his glasses and twirling them as he slinks over to the couch with a little extra swing in his hips.

Aziraphale harrumphs and goes into the kitchen, making emphatic _I’m making tea and ignoring your antics_ noises. Crowley snaps his fingers and a fire blossoms in the fireplace. He knows he should probably miracle some dry clothes back on, but the warmth on his skin from the fire feels decadently wonderful.

“Well, this is certainly something you can’t do when the Dowlings are home,” Aziraphale says as he comes back into the room. He sets the tea tray down on the ottoman (ridiculous substitute for a decent coffee table – Crowley wishes he could take credit for them) and pours, adding just a taste of sugar to Crowley’s, exactly the way he likes it. “In the spirit of the week and all.”

As much as Crowley likes to tease Aziraphale, he didn’t really think seeing Crowley almost naked would make him uncomfortable. “It’s just me, angel. Been like this under my clothes the whole time.”

“Well, I’ve never seen you like this before. Guess it’s a first for both of us.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley sees Aziraphale’s hand wobble the tiniest bit as he picks up his own cup of tea and sits down primly in the armchair – no cuddling on the couch today, apparently. Aziraphale glances at Crowley, eyeing his naked chest, and then harrumphs again, giving his head a little shake.

Crowley is starting to feel just a tad self-conscious. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to look,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale meets Crowley’s gaze, a challenge in his eyes. “Did I say I didn’t like it?”

The silence that follows this astonishing statement is broken only by Aziraphale blowing gently on his tea, a breath that, improbably, dances over Crowley’s bare skin. Aziraphale gives him a little smile, but then he looks away.

Finally, after Crowley searches for and gives up on any possible response to this statement, Aziraphale speaks up again.

“Did you have any choice about your corporeal form?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley can’t tell if this is an attempt to change the subject – which he would thoroughly understand, given how his nerves are twanging with this further saunter into completely unknown territory.

“No, ‘course not. Would I have picked these if I did?” Crowley gestures at his yellow eyes.

“You don’t like them?”

Crowley pauses, trying to give Aziraphale a more honest answer than the one he usually tells himself. “Not most of the time. They’re damned inconvenient, and they don’t do well in bright light.” And I don’t care for people thinking I’m a freak when they catch a glimpse, he adds to himself. 

“I think they’re pretty,” Aziraphale says.

“You don’t, don’t say that,” Crowley replies automatically.

“I do.” Aziraphale puts his tea cup down on the tray. “How do you think your corporeal form was selected, then?”

“I dunno. Something appropriate for tempting humanssss, I suppose.” Just the memory of being assigned to Eden brings out the hiss in his voice. “The whole snake thing was convenient at the time. Glad it isn’t all I’ve got, though. Couldn’t have done most of the bits I have with a giant serpent on my shoulders.”

“I think your form suits you.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“Saucy. Insouciant. Attractive.” Aziraphale suddenly becomes very interested in his cuticles, which are perfectly manicured as usual.

Well. Crowley did not expect this, and he’s not sure what to make of it. He’s never felt attractive in any deserving sense, although he’s often used his powers to charm to his advantage. He would assume that’s what Aziraphale is referring to, were it not for the slight blush creeping up the angel’s cheeks. He can’t quite bring himself to address it.

“What about you? How did they do it up there, pick your form?”

Aziraphale sits back, hands returning to his knees. “Same concept, I think. Something appropriate for my role. Approachable?” Aziraphale shrugs a little. “I do wish they’d made me a little less…” Aziraphale rolls his eyes at himself, pats his belly. “I’ve thought about changing it, my corporation, but the paperwork would be dreary. And Gabriel would never let me hear the end of it.” There’s a bitterness to Aziraphale’s tone that pulls at Crowley’s heart, and he can’t have it.

“No, absolutely not,” Crowley says, rather more emphatically than he means to.

“What?”

“Don’t change, angel, please don’t. You’re perfect, just as you are.” 

“That’s sweet of you to say, Crowley, but there’s no doubt that I’m far from perfect.” 

“That’s bullocks. You’re beautiful.” Crowley blinks hard, his throat tightening. “There’s no one like you.”

Aziraphale looks up. Crowley can see the moment when Aziraphale realizes what Crowley is saying, and decides to accept it.

“You make me feel things I shouldn’t, Crowley.” There’s no hint of regret in Aziraphale’s voice this time. 

Crowley swallows hard. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Envy.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“Desire.”

All the breath leaves Crowley’s body, and his skin prickles with heat. He feels a little of the snake rippling through him, showing off.

Aziraphale stands up, and suddenly there’s a glamour over him, a slight shimmer hiding his true form, and he appears to Crowley as a younger man, slimmer, wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt he could have bought at any overpriced East Village boutique.

“Would you like me better this way, Crowley?”

Crowley stands and grabs Aziraphale’s arm. “Stop that, for – someone’s sake. Stop.”

Aziraphale drops the glamour, and looks down at his feet.

“I thought you knew me better than anyone, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, his voice rough. “How could you think I would want that? How can you not know how much I-” The words stick in his throat.

“I know you care about me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, slowly raising his head to meet Crowley’s eyes. “But I’ve never allowed myself to wonder what that means. If you… _want_ me.”

Aziraphale’s fingers have fluttered to Crowley’s sides, and Crowley feels like his skin is on fire. He can hardly breathe, and his heart is about to beat right out of his fragile chest.

“You don’t need to wonder any more, angel,” Crowley says. “Let me show you.”

Aziraphale’s mouth falls open, his pink lips parting, and Crowley inclines his head towards Aziraphale. But just as their lips are about to meet, there’s a shift in the ethereal plane and Crowley finds himself abruptly transported out of the Dowlings’ living room. 

When he gets his bearings, he realizes he’s in line at Aziraphale’s favorite bakery, far away from the brownstone. And he’s still mostly naked.

Dazed, Crowley miracles himself some clothes and stumbles out of the shop. He wonders for a confused moment if Aziraphale just had an intense craving for cronuts, or got so nervous about kissing Crowley that he panicked.

But for all his mild manners and apparent naiveté, Aziraphale is no ordinary soul. He’s a Principality, a warrior of the Lord, and he’s been around for all of the Earth’s six thousand years and then some. He’s never punctuated any of their conversations or disagreements with anything like this, and Crowley doesn’t believe that any amount of nervous tension could make him do it now.

No, for Aziraphale to have thrown Crowley into an entirely different zip code, with no warning whatsoever, something must be terribly wrong.

*******

Crowley runs back to the brownstone, moving rather faster than any human might, but he skids to a stop when he gets to the house. Aziraphale’s not inside – he can tell even before he opens the door. The house is empty.

He stares around the living room, where moments ago he was flooded with Aziraphale’s light, filled with an unexpected thrill that fled as fast as it came. The cups of tea still sit on the tray, just as they had left them. There’s no sign of a struggle, no smell of brimstone revealing a demonic guest.

Crowley tells himself not to worry, not to panic, that there has to be an explanation. Aziraphale wouldn’t just leave him, not like this, not when they were just about to do something, to finally address what they had both been dancing around for who knows how long. At least he wouldn’t leave without a damn good reason.

Crowley checks the second floor, throwing open door after door, but Aziraphale isn’t there. Downstairs he moves through the sitting room, the dining room, the kitchen – and that’s when he sees it. Crowley grabs the note with shaking hands.

_Mr. and Mrs. Dowling – Please excuse the short notice, but I have been called away on a family matter. I won’t be gone long, but wanted to let you know just in case I have still not returned when you are back from your holiday. I hope Warlock enjoys the rollercoasters, the water slides, and the doves.  
Yours,  
Mr. A. Cortese_

Crowley sinks to the floor, the note still wobbling in his hand. Aziraphale must have told whoever showed up that he had a responsibility to the Dowlings, and used it as an excuse to write the note. But regardless of the salutation, it’s clearly meant for him.

He reads it over and over, trying to determine what Aziraphale’s words really mean. _A family matter_ surely indicates it was Heaven that came for him, not Hell, and for that Crowley is deeply grateful. Crowley can’t make heads or tails of any of the rest of it, except maybe for the strange reference to Warlock enjoying the “rollercoasters, water slides, and doves.” Florida’s great money sucking theme parks have rollercoasters and water slides, but as far as he knows, they don’t have any doves. 

Any angels come down to claim Aziraphale wouldn’t know that, however, so _doves_ could mean something – assuming Aziraphale has any clue about it either.

That night, for a change, Crowley doesn’t sleep. He drinks at the nastiest bar in the neighborhood, spinning nightmares of what heaven might do to Aziraphale if they’ve moved past stern rebukes as forms of discipline. Then in his drunken stupor he panics, worrying that Aziraphale might come home and Crowley wouldn’t be there. 

Crowley stumbles back to the brownstone as the sun is coming up, penetrating his dark glasses and adding to his misery. There’s a gray bird waiting for him on the stoop, idly stepping back and forth, uncaring of the message attached to her leg.

_A dove._

Trembling, Crowley brings her inside and sits heavily on the tile floor in the entryway. He carefully detaches the message from the dove’s leg and unfurls it.

_I am not Demetrius, and you are not Helena. There is no need for Puck to intervene. But you never liked William’s gloomy ones, and I’m afraid that’s our story yet. I am sorry._

Crowley sits, stunned. The dove continues to strut around his legs, cooing softly. Are these really Aziraphale’s words? _There is no need for Puck to intervene._ Does this mean Aziraphale loves Crowley, already, truly, and with no need for any further chasing or love juice from a sprite? And if so, why must their story still be a tragedy? And why isn’t Aziraphale back yet?

Crowley leans his head back against the wall and bangs it a few times, eyes squeezed shut. It almost doesn’t matter how Aziraphale feels about him, it’s all grade school pining compared to the fact that he has no idea what state Aziraphale is really in right now; he could be bound by heavenly chains, suffering punishment at the hands of an archangel who never believed in him. He could be in horrible pain. He could be discorporated, or worse.

Crowley draws in a deep breath, and tries not to cry. 

*****  
Aziraphale shows up at the brownstone just after the Dowlings return from vacation. Crowley is so relieved to see him he hardly minds that Aziraphale doesn’t give them a minute alone.

Crowley hangs about in the kitchen doorway as Aziraphale chats with Mrs. Dowling. The angel doesn’t look any the worse for wear, all still there, from his soft white curls down to his old fashioned leather brogues. But there’s something broken behind his eyes when his gaze skids past Crowley.

That night, when the Dowlings are asleep, Crowley hears Aziraphale’s door creak open. He follows him downstairs and out behind the house, where a wrought iron table and chairs sit amid potted plants. There’s a back fence that has seen better days, but it serves to separate their small yard from their neighbors.

Aziraphale pauses at the edge of the brick patio, and for a minute Crowley thinks that he might keep on walking, right through the fence and up into someone else’s house.

“Zira,” Crowley says, the hardly used nickname falling from his mouth. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Aziraphale says plainly. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“’Course it does.” Crowley joins him, both of them now staring out at nothing. “Tell me what happened.”

Aziraphale shrugs, his lips pressing hard together, before he speaks. “Gabriel came here. Brought me upstairs for a… meeting.”

“A meeting? What kind of bloody meeting?”

“A performance review, of sorts, I suppose. His estimation of me was not… kind.”

“Bastard,” Crowley says, with feeling. “You’re great at your job.”

“Crowley, please.”

“You’re supposed to protect ‘em, and that’s what you do. Protect. You always do.”

“Gabriel doesn’t see it that way.” Aziraphale laces his hands in front of him. “He had a lot of questions for me.”

“Questions? About what?”

“What I’ve been doing, who I’ve been doing it with…”

Crowley feels the ever-present fear in his body grow. “Does he know about – about - ?”

“There’s nothing to know,” Aziraphale says, his eyes flickering to Crowley’s face and then down. “Nothing at all. There can’t be.”

“But Aziraphale,” Crowley says, almost hissing in protest, “you don’t have to listen to him, he’s wrong-”

“ _We’re_ wrong, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and when he turns to face Crowley, the moonlight reflects off the tears in his eyes. “We can’t do this. Gabriel is far too cruel. There’s no telling what he might do. I’m not even sure that my status as an angel would protect me, and if he were to decide to go after you-” Aziraphale breaks off, voice shuddering, and then reaches up to touch Crowley’s cheek.

“Crowley, I simply couldn’t bear it.”

Without another word, Aziraphale turns and goes back into the house.

Crowley’s heart is pounding, and he feels like his blood is about to boil. He needs to move, and so he does, taking off at a blistering pace around the front of the brownstone and down the street.

There are still a few people around even though it’s late, but none of them notice Crowley. He goes into Tompkins Square Park and forces himself to slow down, finally dropping onto a bench. Of course, it’s the same one he and Aziraphale have found themselves at many times this summer, next to the temperance fountain and its proclamation of faith, hope, charity, and, of course, temperance. 

Neither of them had a hand in Prohibition. Crowley had half-heartedly accused Aziraphale of being responsible for it, but couldn’t help bursting into uncontrollable laughter at the idea of Aziraphale doing anything that would deprive the world of a fine glass of wine.

Sitting in the park on a hot summer evening they had shaken their heads at the grandiose monument, with its four pedestals and statue of Hebe on top. It was a good joke, they agreed, this ode to resisting temptation, the suggestion that providing a drinking fountain with clean water could convince humanity to give up the sins of alcohol.

“What does faith have to do with not drinking wine?” Crowley had mused. “If that’s the standard, you’re in deep trouble, angel.”

But Aziraphale is in trouble now, and it’s not because he fancies a nice glass of pinot before bed. It’s because of Crowley. 

It doesn’t add up, though, because Aziraphale’s association with Crowley hasn’t made Aziraphale any less good. The angel shines with goodness, it’s his very essence.

There’s no way that Gabriel can’t see how good Aziraphale is. He obviously just doesn’t care.

Crowley wonders if Aziraphale realizes this yet, this fatal flaw in the archangel. He thinks, from the shattered look in Aziraphale’s eyes tonight, that he does.

Crowley leans back on the bench, closes his eyes, and waits for the sun to come up.

*****  
Two weeks later, the household is preparing to return to London. Mrs. Dowling had stopped by that morning to let Crowley – Mr. Harrison – know that their proposed tutoring schedule for Warlock was acceptable, and they looked forward to seeing him on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and Mr. Cortese on Mondays and Wednesdays; Fridays would be dedicated to algebra, for which they were employing a third tutor.

“It’s quite a good plan, I think,” she had said, a pleased look on her face. “You and Mr. Cortese won’t get in each others’ way, and Warlock can focus solely on one subject a day. Thank you for thinking of…”

Crowley stops listening to her as he realizes what this means – Aziraphale has arranged their schedule so that they aren’t even at the Dowlings’ house on the same days. He’s never going to see him again.

By the time they’re on the airplane, somewhere over the Atlantic, Crowley has calmed himself down. It has something to do with the look of abject misery on Aziraphale’s face, which he simply can’t abide. The situation may be harsh, but Crowley isn’t going to allow himself to make it any worse.

Crowley unbuckles his seat belt and stands, leaning close to Aziraphale, who’s seated across the aisle from him. 

“It’s okay, angel,” he says.

“What?” Aziraphale looks up, his eyes wide.

“It’s okay. All of it. I get it.” 

Aziraphale blinks hard. When he speaks, his voice has gone soft. “Thank you.”

“Please don’t thank me.”

Aziraphale tuts at this old chestnut, and lets out a long breath. “I _loved_ our few days of freedom,” Aziraphale says, holding Crowley’s gaze. “Truly.”

Crowley’s throat tightens up. “Me too.” 

This only deepens the sorrow in Aziraphale’s expression, but there isn’t much Crowley can do about it. He wants to do more - to lean down and put his arms around Aziraphale, feel his warmth and inhale the scent of his cologne. Fold his wings around him and keep him safe. But he can’t, even if he weren’t blocking the aisle on an overbooked flight to Heathrow.

So Crowley nods, catches a weak smile on Aziraphale’s face, and lurches back to the miniscule washroom, where he sits for several long moments, catching his breath and assuring himself that he did the right thing.

Then he charms a few extra biscuits from the flight attendant and drops them in Aziraphale’s lap as he arranges his limbs back into his seat. Screw you, Gabriel, he thinks. My angel gets peckish between meals.

*******

The first few weeks back in London are painful, and, almost as bad, intensely boring. Crowley has gotten used to chatting with Aziraphale off and on during the day, whenever they had a free moment, and spending the evening hours taking a walk in the park, trying out new restaurants, or returning to old favorites. It’s been a long time since Crowley has had anyone else he wanted to _fraternize_ with, and he’s preferred Aziraphale for that role for far longer than he cares to admit.

Crowley spends too many evenings at the pub a few blocks away from his flat. They tolerate him there, don’t bother about the chap in the corner who’s always mumbling into his whiskey. Sometimes Crowley tries to chat with the bartender, but he’s a poor substitute for Aziraphale. 

One night there’s a bachelor party going on at Crowley’s usual pub, and the combination of unexpected commotion and unbridled misogyny is too much for him to take. He downs his drink and goes back out onto the sidewalk, wandering further down the street. The strains of melody coming from a club advertising live music sound suitably mournful, so he goes inside and finds a table at the back.

Crowley downs several shots of whiskey before settling in to listen to the singer. She’s got a Carly Simon thing going on, Crowley thinks, and tries to remember if Carly Simon is still alive or not. That’s the thing with following popular music, the artists and their songs come and go so quickly, there’s a cost to getting attached.

Aziraphale may have the right idea, letting the decades slide by without paying them too much attention. What’s the use in learning the lyrics to every Led Zeppelin song if they’re just going to break up before you even have a chance to jam with them?

Crowley sighs and waves at the waitress to bring him another double. He doesn’t want his relationship with Aziraphale to go back to the way it was before they had charge of Warlock, when going ten or twenty or a hundred years without seeing each other was the norm. There’s not enough time left, for one thing, seeing as Armageddon is less than a year away. And more than that, Crowley just misses him so much.

It’s easy to admit to himself, now that he’s been stewing in it for weeks. He misses the angel’s clever eyes, his teasing smirk, the way he wiggles in his seat with pleasure when Crowley says something amusing. He misses the fondness in his tone, the way Aziraphale never lets him get away with too much mischief.

He misses how Aziraphale just knows him, without Crowley ever having to explain.

“Pull it together,” Crowley mutters at himself, shaking his head. The singer’s next song breaks into his reverie, and Crowley sighs. It’s as if she’s teasing him.

_I get along without you very well  
Of course I do  
Except, when soft rains fall…_  


Now that he thinks about it, Carly did cover this one at some point, along with a million other singers. Couldn’t any of them top Sinatra, though.  


_I've forgotten you just like I should  
Of course I have…_  


Crowley groans and bangs his head on the sticky table. These words have made him tear up since he first read Jane Brown Thompson’s poem, and convinced her to give it to Hoagy Carmichael back in 1939. When the song Carmichael wrote came on the air years later, he made sure to play it for Aziraphale – who was so entranced by the Chopin theme incorporated into it he didn’t pay any attention at all to the lyrics.  


*****  


Crowley tries leaving notes for Aziraphale at the Dowlings’, but doesn’t get anything of substance in return, just fussy commentary on his lesson plans. One day he tries to quiz Warlock on whether Mr. Cortese has mentioned him lately, and receives the only recent communication from Aziraphale with any hint of personality ( _Leave him out of it, it’s not his fault – at least, not this bit_ ) in Aziraphale’s neat copperplate handwriting. The note goes blank as soon as Crowley reads it.  


But every time Crowley gets angry, he thinks about what Aziraphale said to him ( _I couldn’t bear it_ ) and the message about Helena and Demetrius and Puck, and the look of misery on Aziraphale’s face on the airplane.  
Probably they should have seen _Romeo and Juliet_ this summer instead of _Midsummer Night’s Dream._ It would have lent itself to even more dramatic comparisons.  


Crowley’s had plenty of experience pining over Aziraphale, but this time it seems even more dire. Not only is the world ending in less than a year, putting a harsh deadline on his desires, but this time Aziraphale might actually return his feelings. He can’t decide if it makes the whole matter more or less painful, the knowledge that now he is longing for something that he might actually be able to have, if only things were different.  


As autumn wears on, Crowley consoles himself with the thought that he will see Aziraphale at the Dowlings’ Thanksgiving dinner. The presence of all of Warlock’s tutors has been requested to keep the child occupied while his parents attend to matters of importance. Crowley wonders whether Hell realized just how little Warlock’s parents would focus on him, when they made the decision to drop the Antichrist into this particular setting.

Crowley considers whether Aziraphale will incorporate the true nature of the Americans’ annual celebration into his lessons this year. It’s something he’d like to talk to him about, coordinate their teachings appropriately. In years past, they would have done a skit together.

But Crowley isn’t in the mood for another rejection from Aziraphale right now, not when he is going to see him in person soon. If Aziraphale wanted to join forces for this one, he’d have let him know; since he hasn’t, Crowley will behave. In any case, Warlock doesn’t seem particularly interested in learning about the history of the American holiday. He just goes on about how he’s sticking it to the Brits by celebrating Thanksgiving under their noses. Warlock’s not the most polite child.

Sadly, when the day arrives, well-dressed guests pouring in to the Dowlings’ elegant residence, the angel is nowhere in sight.

“Said he had a family thing,” Serafina comments when Crowley retreats to the kitchen, looking for something stronger than the bubbly at the open bar. “Wanted me to let you know. Hard to picture him with family, though. He’s never mentioned them before.”

Crowley’s blood goes cold, and he downs the whiskey he’s just poured in a single gulp. “No, he wouldn’t have.” Because “family” is apparently now code for up there, and this could mean Gabriel is taking micromanaging to a whole new level.

As soon as he can make an exit, Crowley climbs into the Bentley and squeals away. _My love is dangerous_ blares from the speakers, and Crowley bangs his fist on the dash, yelling obscenities at the stereo as he speeds through the city.

When he gets to the bookshop he leaps out of the car, nearly knocking Aziraphale over in his rush to get to the door.

“Aziraphale – you’re – you’re all right-”

“Why yes, my dear, I’m fine. Whatever is the matter?” Aziraphale reverses course and holds the door of the shop open. Crowley glares at him and goes inside.

“You said you had a _family matter_ \- what was I supposed to think?”

Aziraphale looks abashed. “Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I had a report due, nothing more.”

Crowley paces, arms waving, his heart still banging against the inside of his ribs. “I thought you had gone – that Gabriel had called you up there again, that he was going to make you do something else, something worse, I don’t know. It’s already so awful, I never get to see you, how do I know if you’re okay, I have no idea-”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says gently, moving into his space. “I’m fine. And I am sorry.”

Crowley stutters, arms still cartwheeling, as he takes in the sight in front of him. It’s been weeks since he’s even seen Aziraphale, and now he’s right here, expression soft and sad, and all Crowley can do is yell. He takes a deep breath and tries to get control of himself.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, touching one hand ever so briefly to Crowley’s arm and then pulling it away. “This has been hard for me, too.”

It’s not much, but it’s enough to knock the breath out of him, even as he’s fighting to steady himself. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale sighs, frowns, and holds up the envelope in his hand. “But I do have to go, now, and file this. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Oh, right. Of course you do.”

“But maybe we should get together soon, to, um, compare notes on Warlock? I don’t have any idea what you’ve been teaching him these days. I’d very much like to get your thoughts on the modern poetry unit I have planned. I was thinking of starting with Frost, perhaps? He’s quite accessible…”

The relief that washes over Crowley is so strong he can only nod in agreement. Aziraphale suggests that they meet in two weeks’ time at the park and he’s moving towards the door, about to leave, when Crowley finally manages to speak.

“Wait. Please.”

Aziraphale turns. “What is it?”

It’s that I don’t want you to go, Crowley thinks. Not yet. I need to look at you for just another second, to see the pale blue of your eyes, the way your mouth moves when you speak. I need you near me, just for a tiny bit longer.

“I, um - here.” Crowley pulls the soft ecru gloves out of his jacket pocket and thrusts them at Aziraphale. “These are for you. Got them in New York, before…”

For a moment Crowley fears that Aziraphale won’t accept the gift, but then Aziraphale’s face lights up and he takes the gloves, clutching them against his chest with both hands.

“Crowley, these are beautiful. Thank you.” 

“Just wanted you to have them. Winter’s coming. Keep you warm and all.”

Aziraphale gazes at him fondly, and time pauses, the moment extending. “I’ll treasure them.”

“They’re just gloves, they’re not-”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale reaches out again and gives Crowley a squeeze on his arm. “Truly.” Then he’s gone, the door closing firmly behind him.

*****  
Crowley is counting the days until his meeting with Aziraphale. He feels ridiculously hopeful about the whole thing. Surely Aziraphale wouldn’t have suggested a meeting if he intended to keep up their separation. And Aziraphale had seemed pleased to receive the gloves, genuinely pleased. Crowley feels better than he has in months. He has to remind himself to scold his plants.

It’s the day before their scheduled rendezvous when a cab pulls up just as Crowley is walking down the street towards his flat. The door flies open, and Aziraphale hisses at him to get in (it’s rather disconcerting to be hissed at, he’ll have to keep that in mind).

Aziraphale is wearing a long camel-colored trench coat and a thick tartan scarf. It’s a change from his ordinary outfit, and that plus his odd behavior (he’s ducking down in his seat, flinging directions at the cab driver) makes Crowley’s skin prickle.

“Aziraphale? Are you in - disguise? What’s going on?”

Aziraphale looks at him as if he’s not quite right in the head. “It’s hardly going to work as a disguise if you _tell_ everyone,” he snaps, glaring meaningfully at Crowley and then at the cab driver.

Aziraphale refuses to explain further, despite Crowley interrogating him with his eyebrows. He has the cab drop them at Holland Park, and leads Crowley briskly through the grounds until they reach the noisily cascading waterfall in one of the two Japanese gardens. Finally Aziraphale halts, looking around, and then settles down primly on a bench.

The situation would be amusing if Aziraphale didn’t look so concerned.

“So…” Crowley begins, sitting down next to Aziraphale, stretching his legs out in front of him. “What’s going on?”

Aziraphale takes another look around, and then sighs. “After you came to the bookshop, I became worried that my flat was being watched. It didn’t seem prudent to go through with our plans as scheduled. I needed to take precautions.”

“You’re worried that Gabriel is keeping close tabs on you? Do you have any evidence of that at all?”

Aziraphale presses his lips tightly together. “I know it seems paranoid. But Crowley…” Aziraphale turns to him, his eyes imploring. “You think I’m just being an old silly, but you weren’t there, when Gabriel called me up to headquarters this summer. Gabriel seemed intent upon humiliating me. He was beyond rude. It’s like he was taking it personally.”

“Taking what personally?”

“My performance. Or lack thereof. With regard to the Antichrist.” Aziraphale straightens his shoulders and adjusts his neck, like he’s telling his spine to settle down and behave. “Anyhoo, doesn’t do any harm to be watchful.”

Crowley considers his next words carefully, because he thinks he might dissolve right here on the spot if Aziraphale agrees. But he has to offer. Aziraphale is terrible at lying, and no matter what he says, he is convinced that Gabriel has it out for him. And Gabriel certainly could do some damage to them, if he decided to.

“Aziraphale, do you… do you think maybe we shouldn’t meet at all, then? That this was a bad idea?”

“I thought about it,” Aziraphale says slowly, and Crowley’s chest tightens. “I did. For quite some time. But I decided that, all things considered, cutting ties between us isn’t in the best interest of anyone.”

Crowley lets this wash over him, tries to figure out what Aziraphale is really saying. “Not in the best interests _of anyone_? You mean, it won’t help us prevent Armageddon?”

Aziraphale nods, and Crowley thinks that he’s done explaining, but then Aziraphale looks up at him, his most innocent expression plastered on his face. “Besides, I can’t be expected to do my best work if I’m miserable. Neither can you. Therefore, it is simply not in anyone’s interest for us to be out of touch.”

In a flash, Aziraphale has gone from exhibiting earnest concern to being just a little bit of a bastard. _He’s brilliant,_ Crowley thinks. Followed immediately by _I am so screwed._

Crowley resists the urge to laugh out loud, and sees Aziraphale’s mouth twitch with the same urge. “Quite right, of course. I agree. Wholeheartedly.”

From there the conversation slides easily along, from a brief discussion of the modern poets (any of whom will surely bore Warlock to tears within minutes) to the reviews of an oyster bar in Mayfair that Aziraphale simply has to try, to whether the park’s remaining peacocks are going to show themselves today or if they hide away during the winter.

They meet in different outdoor locations every few weeks after that, varying their meeting days and times, until Aziraphale no longer seems quite as nervous. Then over the winter holidays, when Crowley is chaperoning Warlock and a handful of other overly rich and spoiled children on a trip to Paris, a storm hits England. Crowley reads idly about the high winds and heavy rain, and for the briefest of moments is glad to be out of town.

He immediately recognizes his mistake, however, and goes about making his charges suffer terribly (it’s not his fault that their hotel only serves liver and onions, and a blue cheese so stinky that even Aziraphale would have turned his nose up at it) so that each of them is calling their parents within hours to demand that Crowley bring them home immediately. Even so, it’s days before Crowley is back in London.

He’s not surprised when he goes by the bookshop and Aziraphale isn’t there. What with the flooding and power outages, he knows the angel will be out and about, trying to help. 

It feels like forever before Crowley finally tracks him down. Crowley’s outside a fire station when he senses the pull that means Aziraphale is near. He goes inside, winds his way through the pallets of relief supplies, and into a back room where tables are stacked high with canned goods. Nearly hidden by tins of curried beans, Aziraphale is slumped over, head down, and, if Crowley is not mistaken, snoring gently.

Relief washes over him, and Crowley takes a moment to just look at Aziraphale and let himself breathe. Aziraphale’s white curls are a little less fluffy than usual, and his coat a bit more wrinkled, but he is unquestionably safe. Dry, even – not waterlogged and freezing to discorporation out in the flooded streets. At worst, he’ll probably have a crick in his neck.

“Hey,” Crowley puts a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Aziraphale. Wake up.”

The angel just grumbles and digs his face into his own arms. Crowley wishes he had a camera to capture the moment.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley squats down and puts his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and whispers into his ear. “Let’s get you home. I’ll make you some crepes.”

Aziraphale stirs, and blinks owlishly at Crowley. “Crepes?”

Crowley drives them back in the Bentley, which is untroubled by the vast puddles still littering the streets. Aziraphale spends most of the drive explaining that he wasn’t asleep, and Crowley just nods and smirks.

He pauses when they get to the bookshop, raising a questioning eyebrow at Aziraphale, but Aziraphale just inclines his head and opens the door for him.

“You, um, you’re not worried about Gabriel spying on you anymore?” Crowley asks, when they’ve settled into Aziraphale’s cozy study. 

Aziraphale stares into his tea. “No, not really.”

No further explanation is forthcoming. Crowley leans back, stretching out on the couch and propping his feet up on the arm. “May I ask why? Has something changed?”

Aziraphale tuts and goes through the motions of adding sugar to his tea, which Crowley is pretty sure already has sugar in it. “I may have done some foolish things… left some hints, shall we say. But,” Aziraphale shrugs, his expression torn between relief and dismay, “no one noticed. Gabriel may want to keep me in line, but he’s still not…”

“Paying much attention?”

Aziraphale puts his tea cup down and clasps his hands, then looks up at Crowley, a hint of challenge in his eyes. “Precisely.” Aziraphale stands and walks past Crowley, touching his arm just for a moment before he continues on his way to the kitchen. “Now, I believe you promised to make me crepes.”

****

And so they fall back into their routine, the one they adopted in Warlock’s younger years, when they regularly shed their nanny and gardener costumes and just relaxed in each other’s company while they pretended to talk about their ward. They still stick to parks for the most part out of a belief that these are the safest places to meet; this is largely Crowley’s fault – in the 1970s he read too many John le Carré novels and passed on what he learned to Aziraphale, without, exactly, telling Aziraphale where his newfound knowledge had come from.

One cold February night, Aziraphale is shivering next to Crowley as they sit on a park bench in St. James’ Square, his gloved hands clasped tightly together, and Crowley has suddenly had enough of their attempts at spycraft.

“There’s a new café not far from here,” he says. “Excellent wine list. Might help us brainstorm next month’s history theme, if we had a glass or two.”

Aziraphale’s eyes light up. He’s _delightful_ , and Crowley has tried and tried not to let himself think things like that, but Aziraphale is just too much for his willpower sometimes.

“Why, you old serpent. That’s a wonderful idea, Crowley.” 

Before they know it, they’ve abandoned the idea of parks (at least until the weather becomes a bit less insufferable) and are dining out together with enough frequency that Crowley has to put serious effort into his research – it wouldn’t do to have Aziraphale be in the mood for a new treat and have nothing special to offer him. He rationalizes it by posting critical TripAdvisor reviews if the service doesn’t measure up (although given how much Aziraphale tips, he doesn’t think any of their usual haunts suffer particularly).

Then Warlock’s eleventh birthday is upon them. 

*****

“To the world…”

They raise their glasses again. Crowley’s cheeks are sore with smiling. He’s improbably, incredibly happy. The Ritz bustles around them, but he only has eyes for Aziraphale.

From the look on Aziraphale’s face, he might feel the same.

When Crowley has finished a third cup of coffee, and Aziraphale a second dessert, they have no excuse to stay any longer. Aziraphale pats his pockets and pulls something out, a relieved look on his face.

“Oh thank goodness,” he says, settling back with a smile. “It just occurred to me with all that discorporating and body swapping that it might have gotten lost in the shuffle.”

Crowley watches, speechless, as Aziraphale holds up an antique gold pocket watch with a scene of Adam and Eve on the cover. “I bought that for you,” Crowley says softly. 

“I know, my dear.” Aziraphale opens up the watch and runs a fingertip gently over the inscription on the inside of the case. _Always, C._

Crowley remembers taking it to get inscribed. He didn’t want it to be anything too obvious, anything that might connect the two of them if it was seen by the wrong sorts. He had pretty much hoped the “love” before “always” would be inferred.

By the look on Aziraphale’s face, he thinks it may have been.

“I particularly like the snake detail,” Aziraphale says, eyes sparkling. “It was a lovely gift, Crowley.”

Crowley is still having trouble finding words, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem too worried, stroking the watch again and sliding it back into his pocket. 

“I think I’m in the mood for some sherry. You?” Aziraphale asks, simultaneously looking around for a waiter. 

Crowley nods, and sherry is obtained, and the afternoon continues on. It won’t be the first time they’ve dined from the end of one meal to the next, and Crowley certainly isn’t going to shuffle them out the door, at least not until his heart has a chance to calm down.

But even Aziraphale eventually gets tired of sampling treats, and they take their leave. The Bentley is waiting obediently outside, and Crowley is just about to hold the car door for Aziraphale, when the angel surprises him.

“I think I’m going to walk for a while, first,” Aziraphale says. Crowley waits, anticipating an invitation to accompany him that doesn’t come. After a moment, Aziraphale seems to gather himself, says good night, and heads off down the street.

Crowley’s driving the Bentley and halfway home before he lets himself feel how _disappointed_ he is. 

He mists his plants for a while, not sure what to do with himself (he’s cautious with the mister; even though it didn’t actually have holy water in it, he had almost convinced himself that it did). 

“What did you expect,” he mutters, glaring at some dead leaves that had the audacity to fall on the floor. “Did you think he’d come home and play happy family with you? Hang up some tartan curtains and brew you some tea?”

The sorry thing is, Crowley had allowed himself to hope rather too much that Aziraphale might do just that. That being on the same side, their own side, would relax the barriers between them, and let them finally, finally explore what they could be together.

The pain that Crowley has pushed down since last summer surges back up, finding its way through the cracks in Crowley’s ribs and taking root in his chest. It’s suffocating.

Crowley kicks off his shoes and throws himself into bed, burrowing under the covers and stuffing his face under a silken pillow. It’s been too long since he had a proper nap. Maybe when he wakes up Aziraphale will have moved on, found someone else to torment. And to think Crowley’s supposed to be the demon.

Crowley has barely fallen asleep when he senses a familiar presence in his room. He sits up, the pillow falling to the side, and looks at Aziraphale.

The angel looks unhappy, and Crowley’s first thought is to ask him what’s wrong, until he remembers Aziraphale walking away from him outside the Ritz. 

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” Aziraphale says, his brow furrowed. 

“What, going for a walk?”

Aziraphale purses his lips. His curls are mussed, as if he’s been running his fingers through his hair. “No, and don’t you say it has to be the right thing, because I’m an angel and what angels do is right by definition. That has clearly proven to be untrue.”

Crowley nods in agreement. “Fair point. So…”

“I meant after Gabriel surprised us last summer. I don’t like what I did.”

“Oh. Well, I get why you did it. You were worried about me.” As much as Crowley hated their forced separation, he never doubted that Aziraphale had his best interests at heart. 

“I should have fought harder. For us. And given you some choice in the matter. And…” Aziraphale’s face is growing even more miserable, cheeks reddening and lips pursing. “I never should have said those things to you the other day, at the bandstand. I’ve been terrible to you.”

Crowley rubs his head to give himself a moment to figure out what to say, realizes that he tossed his sunglasses away when he got into bed, and reaches for them where they landed on his night table.

“Please, wait,” Aziraphale says, tilting his head towards Crowley’s glasses. “I mean, would it be all right, could you… leave them off for a bit? I do love to see your eyes.”

Crowley is still a little fuzzy from his aborted nap, and a little bit confused about whether Aziraphale is apologizing or opening up a philosophical discussion. And now he’s being complimented on his eyes. He’s not quite sure what to do with it all.

Generally speaking, though, Aziraphale is clearly distressed, and so Crowley falls back on the tried and true – take care of him. Crowley scoots over and leans up against the headboard, patting the space on the bed next to him. “Sit down, why don’t you.”

“Oh, oh thank you,” Aziraphale says, pleased, and climbs up on the bed next to Crowley. He smooths his hands over the silky dark duvet. 

They sit in silence, Crowley waiting to see if Aziraphale will elaborate on what has brought him here, showing up at Crowley’s bedside for the second time in just over a year. It _has_ been a particularly eventful year.

When it becomes clear that Aziraphale isn’t going to share further, at least not without some prompting, Crowley pokes at his most recent wound. He realizes as he speaks up that he isn’t nearly as upset about it as he was earlier today. Just having Aziraphale near cures a lot of ills.

“I was surprised when you went off without me, earlier,” Crowley finally says.

Aziraphale lowers his head, bites his lip. “I got scared,” he says softly. “This is all very new.”

Something in Aziraphale’s tone gives Crowley courage. He inches his hand closer to where Aziraphale is still petting the blanket, and then slowly winds his fingers with Aziraphale’s. His long dark nails oddly complement Aziraphale’s perfectly buffed fingertips.

Aziraphale shoots him a warm glance, ducking his face back down in the cutest possible manner. They’ve spent more than six thousand years together, and yet Aziraphale is as shy as a teenager on his first date. 

It’s terribly endearing, as if Crowley needed any more incentive to fall deeper in love with Aziraphale, but he feels the need to tell him something, anything, to put him at ease.

“I’m scared too, you know. Don’t wanna mess this up.”

Aziraphale shifts, turning towards him, his grip on Crowley’s hand tightening. “Oh my dear, you won’t mess anything up. I can’t imagine it.”

“It’s kind of what I do.”

Aziraphale seems to have recovered his confidence, because he shakes his head and straightens his shoulders. “It’s not, actually. Not with me. You’re the only one who has always been there for me. Saved me from myself, any number of times. Loved me, even when I was too much of a fool to accept it.”

Crowley begins to protest, then fully recognizes what Aziraphale is saying. He shouldn’t be surprised that Aziraphale knows that he loves him, the angel is a creature of love after all. But for him to say it so boldly comes as a bit of a shock.

“And it’s all right,” Aziraphale says, voice gentling. “It’s wonderful, actually. Because I love you too.”

Crowley hasn’t even begun to process this when Aziraphale puts a hand on his shoulder, leans in, and kisses him. His lips are soft and plush, but there’s nothing shy about Aziraphale’s kiss. He’s made up his mind, and it’s intoxicating.

They pull apart after a few moments, and Crowley can hardly breathe for the pleasure sparking through his entire body. But he can’t proceed, not quite yet. Not when there is so much on the line.

“Angel?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale smiles up at him.

“You sure about this?”

Eyes wide, Aziraphale nods. “I’ve never been more sure of anything, my dear. I love you.” Aziraphale folds Crowley back into his arms, kissing him softly, and winding their bodies together. Crowley can feel the waves of love and contentment rolling off of his angel, imbuing him with warmth and safety and light.

They’re on their own side now, and it is a miraculous place to be. 

\--The End--

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed – please say hi! And if you want some mood music, listen to the song which inspired the title of this story, Chet Baker’s _I Get Along Without You Very Well,_ which will break your heart.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Good Omens Big Bang #046 I Get Along Without You Very Well (Except Sometimes)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22662346) by [AMadness2Method (CynSyn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynSyn/pseuds/AMadness2Method), [CynSyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynSyn/pseuds/CynSyn)




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